Dean In Wonderland
by MistWraith
Summary: You know, Dad, the freaking extra cookie does not make up for this! And Sam is wearing a dress. Dean is having a really bad day! Please R&R. Rated: T for language.


Disclaimer: I own nothing of Supernatural—rats!—and I'm not making anything from this story.

A/N: Just a bit of silliness. I have used Wonderland in stories in other fandoms. It's just such a great framework for having fun with the characters. Of course, each "Wonderland" changes to fit the characters, issues and events of a particular universe. Anyway, I had fun writing it; I hope you have fun reading it.

Please R & R.

Dean in Wonderland 

He and Sammy—oh, sorry, _Sam_—had finally tracked the damn witch to her lair. Some good research by Sam and some fancy footwork on his part—if he did say so himself—had stripped the bitch of her protective amulet, which meant she was now vulnerable. Didn't make her powerless, though, and caution was still the name of the game.

Especially in this freaking house. It had been the witch's hidey-hole for along time and her power had _warped_ it somehow. He could have sworn he had ended up in the same place twice so far, going in different directions. He and Sam were keeping an open connection on their cell phones, since Dean was not crazy about their splitting up—they couldn't risk her slipping out either the front or back door—and it didn't appear that Sammy was having any more luck finding his way.

Dean shifted his grip on the sawed-off shotgun, his hazel eyes flicking back and forth at the shadows along the corridor. This place was definitely making him jumpy.

The shotgun was really only to push the witch back if she got the jump on him; even without the protective amulet, she still had enough power to shield herself from normal weapons. So, both of them also carried a rowan branch, sharpened to a spear-like point. A tried-and-true witch-killer.

There were some things Dean was just a traditionalist about.

A slight sound, a creaking of the floorboard perhaps, drew his attention ahead. He went into prey-stalking mode, unaware that to an outside observer, Dean had himself become a shapeshifter, morphing into a powerful jungle cat. He had the rowan branch at the ready.

Movement. He stopped, balancing on his soles, a fighter ready for trouble. There. He saw it now. A figure cloaked by shadows, coming around the corner. He hefted the shotgun, ready to keep her at bay until he could nail her twisted excuse for a heart.

A hint of moonlight filtered through an open doorway and the shadow partially resolved itself to a familiar silhouette and Dean exhaled his still-held breath and straightened up.

"Sam," he whispered.

There was a momentary silenced and then a sigh. "Damn," his brother responded, equally quietly. "How did we end up in the same place?"

"I officially _hate_ this house," Dean said, managing to whisper and growl at the same time.

His hunter radar suddenly kicked in. Something deep in the darkness moved. Since all of the Winchesters on this hunt were present and accounted for, that left only one possibility. And the bitch was coming up at Sam's back.

Even as the witch, an odd glow to her hands, stepped into a sliver of light, Dean was pushing Sam aside and moving in front.

A blast of sickly green light engulfed him and the area around him. Through an immediate sense of disorientation, he thought he heard Sam call his name. Then, he was falling—but not _to_ the floor, since it abruptly was no longer there. Walls seemed to surround him as he dropped, fighting to stay conscious.

He lost the fight.

But not before he thought he saw a large white rabbit in a waistcoat hurry by.

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Dean came to lying face down on what was definitely _not_ a house floor. He spit out some dirt and partially-decayed leaves, levered himself up on one arm and looked around. Yep, it was a freaking forest. What one was doing inside the witch's house, he didn't have a clue.

He got to his feet, gingerly moved his right knee around and then dusted more dirt and leaves off his jeans. From his new vantage point, he could see that what he had thought were oddly-shaped bushes or trees were actually large mushrooms.

Really, _really_ large mushrooms. And they were a variety of day-glo colors, including bright spots and stripes. He wondered briefly what had been in the Starbuck's that morning.

Wherever he was, it clearly wasn't anywhere inside or even near the witch's house, which was nowhere in sight. A narrow, but cleared dirt path wound through the mushroom forest. Shrugging, he stepped on the path and began to follow it. A cleared path usually meant a habitation somewhere.

A familiar ringtone sounded and, puzzled, Dean pulled out his cell phone. Flipping it open, he saw he had a text message from his father.

_You need the right fork, Dean._

Dean looked at the path ahead of him. _One_ path. One single fucking path. No forks. No crossroads. No parallel tracks. Just one lousy path.

"Well, thanks, Dad, for that _really_ useful piece of information. Maybe I should try the subway, too, while I'm at it?"

A niggling suspicion that his father was making some snide remark about his table manners was pushed aside. Like he gave a damn whether he used the salad fork or not. It's not as if he ate with his hands or drank his soup, for Christ's sake!

Closing the phone with a little more force than was really required, he continued forward in a decidedly worse mood than a minute ago. After a few minutes of stomping along the path, it entered a grove where the mushrooms were more widely spaced than in the "forest". And one of them was occupied. By a caterpillar.

Though calling it a "caterpillar" was a little like calling Godzilla a "lizard." From head to tail, it was probably taller than Sammy. It had some twenty pairs of "hands" and it was smoking some kind of water pipe. And it _definitely_ looked familiar.

He stared at it, _her_, in disbelief. "Missouri?"

"Well, I see you ain't lost your keen perceptions, boy," she replied.

"As charming as ever," he muttered.

"Don't forget I can read your mind, even if I can't hear you," she snapped at him.

"Oh, good." He immediately thought of a very large bird swooping down and eating her.

She glared at him. "You need to learn to mind your manners, boy."

"I'll do even better than that. If you tell me where I am, I'll hit the dusty road and you can find someone else to insult."

"Where is anyone?" she said portentously. "The mind cannot be contained in one place. Or in one time. The body is but a placeholder for our consciousness."

"Thanks," Dean said sourly. "That was as clear as mud. I was hoping for something more like, 'F7 on the attached map'."

"Your brother would have understood. But then," she said with a nasty smile, "_he_ went to college."

No matter how hard he tried, Dean could not convince his conscience that he would not _really_ be hitting an older woman, just a very large bug. Denied the gratification that would have come from wiping that smug expression off her face, he walked over, grabbed a section of the water pipe and tied it into a large knot. He gave a cheery wave and strolled out of the grove following the path out the opposite side from where he had entered.

"Dean!" she hollered after him. "You get back here and unknot this pipe. You hear me? I ever catch you, I swear I will whup you upside your head with all forty of my hands!"

He stormed down the path, which now left mushrooms behind and entered at real tree-filled forest. As far as he was concerned, Missouri was no more likeable as a caterpillar than she had been as a human. As least, not in her treatment of him. He was still smarting from the "not the sharpest knife in the drawer" comment, not to mention calling him an "amateur." Which was rich coming from someone who had claimed the house was "clean", right before a damn poltergeist tried to throttle Sammy!

"Still got some anger management issues there, huh?"

Dean yelped slightly and whirled around, a little annoyed with himself at being surprised like that. No one was behind him.

"Up here, Dean." The voice was irritatingly smug.

So was the smile. Which hung about a foot above a tree branch some ten feet over his head. And it looked damned familiar, though he could not place it just yet.

The rest of the cat, for such it was, slowly hove into view. _Now_ he recognized the smile, along with the rest of the face. He saw it every day in the mirror when he shaved. Dean blinked, then the penny dropped.

"You're the fucking shapeshifter!" he growled. "You're dead; I shot you!"

"Yes, you did, buster," CheshireDean snapped back, sounding more than a little aggrieved. "After all I was doing for you, too!"

"What you were doing for _me_?" Dean was indignant. "Thanks to you, I'm a dead suspected serial killer! Yeah, _that_ has certainly improved my life. Oh, yeah, and you almost wiped out half of my remaining family."

CheshireDean glared at him, which contrasted oddly with the perpetual grin. "And that wouldn't have been a good thing? Getting rid of that oversized millstone around your neck? No more having to put the beanpole first?"

"Wow," Dean said with a beatific smile, which grew broader when he saw it was irritating the tabby, "you really have a lot of issues. Too bad you didn't try a shrink before you started bumping people off. Or maybe basketweaving," he added helpfully. "Oh, wait, that would be tough with paws, huh?"

CheshireDean's glare darkened. "I could have taken you, you know. You took me by surprise."

Dean just smirked at him.

Which made the cat angrier. "Want to try for two out of three?"

"Actually," Dean said, pulling his ever-present—while on a hunt, anyway—handgun from his waistband, "I think I'd just rather shoot you again."

Startled, CheshireDean raised a paw placatingly. "No need to do anything hasty. I'm just trying to be helpful. We Deans have to stick together, after all." He waved a paw in the direction in which Dean had been heading. "Take the left fork."

This time, when Dean looked ahead, two roads did indeed diverge. CheshireDean gave him a nod and a bright smile, while still gesturing to the left.

_You need the right fork, Dean._

Dean mentally apologized to his father and began to stride down the right-hand path.

"Hey," came the call behind him, "I said, _left_!"

"I know," Dean replied over his shoulder as he continued to wend his way down the right fork.

"Damn," Dean heard from behind him. "I thought I had him."

The path now took him out of the woods and into bright sunlight. There was still no sign of the witch's house, the Impala or his baby brother.

Then again, he was pretty sure he wasn't in Kansas anymore.

The path had widened out and now wound between meadow and fields, a few of which were fenced off. The air was hot, heavy, still and filled with the sounds of insects and birds. Flowers in the fields—large and brightly-colored—stirred lazily, though he did not feel any breeze.

It was _so_ giving him the heebie-jeebies.

After another hour, he was hot, too. And hungry. And thirsty. When a small cottage hove into view, he made a beeline for it. It was a picture-postcard cottage, surrounded by a cheery white fence with a decorated gate that lay open invitingly. It reeked of _normal_.

Dean hated it on sight. And on general principles.

On the other hand, he _was_ hungry and thirsty. Dean knocked at the front door, which garnered no response. Then he cocked his head and listened intently. Yes, definitely. He could hear what sounded like off-key singing coming from somewhere behind the house.

He followed a walk along the side of the house. It led to the back of the cottage and to a small garden area. A long table, covered with a white table cloth and various plates, teacups and saucers, teapots and silverware, stood in the middle of the yard. Three people were sitting around the table.

Dean could feel his jaw hit the ground. Holding pride of place at the head of the table was none other than John Winchester. With some sort of top hat on his head.

"Dad?"

His father gestured him over to the table. "See you took the right fork. Good. We've been waiting for you." The gesture expanded to include the other two guests.

Dean looked at them for the first time and immediately went for his gun, stopping only when his father raised a hand in warning. To John's right sat a figure whose face, from a distance, could have been mistaken for the eldest Winchester. Exceptt for the putrid yellow-green glow to the yes.

A freaking demon!

Who, admittedly, looked a little less fearsome wearing a pink bunny suit.

"Dad, it's a demon!"

"Can't put anything over on you, can we?" the demon noted nastily.

"Not just 'a' demon, Dean. _The_ demon. The one we've been looking for. And here he is!" To Dean's amazement, his father sounded very pleased.

"Uh, Dad, so...why aren't you shooting it or something?"

John looked even more pleased. "The demon and I have been going around this for twenty-two years. We've decided that joining forces makes more sense."

Dean's mouth opened and closed several times, but no words came out.

"As articulate as ever," a familiar voice said coolly.

Dean glanced over at the third person. Slim, blonde, smug, annoying. Yep, he knew her. Of course, Meg wasn't usually wearing mouse whiskers.

Dean thought they actually _improved_ her looks.

"See you've gone for the straw wig look, bitch," he said.

"Dean," John said sharply, "don't talk like that about a future member of the family."

Dean's eyes opened wider. "Member of the family?"

"Uh huh. We're allying in the old-fashioned way. He," his father waved at the demon, "had a daughter"—here his Dad pointed at Meg—"and I have two sons. A marriage arrangement. It's perfect."

"M-marriage?" Dean involuntarily took a step backward.

Meg sneered at him. "In your dreams, Deanie. I'm interested in Psychic Boy. Our children will be super special."

Dean was ashamed to admit his first reaction was relief. Then his big brotherly instincts kicked in and he voiced a protest.

"Dad, I don't think Sammy even likes her."

"It's Sam!" she hissed at him and he glared back at her.

"I have faith in my little Meg," the demon rumbled fondly. "She's such a charmer."

"Yeah," Dean muttered. "If you're a snake."

He dodged a couple of cubes of sugar hurled his way by his future sister-in-law.

John wasn't through. "Of course, since we _are_ marrying into a demonic clan, there are certain rituals that they want to incorporate into the ceremony. I can understand that."

"What kind of rituals?" Dean asked warily, his Something-Really-Nasty-Is-About-To-Eat-Me radar suddenly coming to life.

"A sacrifice," John replied blandly. "And it needs to be someone related by blood." John gave Dean a pointed look. "Fortunately, I have an extra."

"You want to _sacrifice_ me so that Sam can marry some demon bitch?"

_Hey, firstborn here, Dad!_

"Sometimes," John reminded him, "we have to take one for the team. You _did_ tell Sam that, didn't you?"

"I was talking about his dating a beautiful woman and getting laid," Dean said hotly. "Not throwing himself into a fucking volcano!"

"Principle's the same." His father remained indifferent. Then John offered the demon some more tea.

Inspiration struck. "Uh, Dad, I'm pretty sure sacrifices require a _virgin_. That let's _me_ out."

His father looked nonplussed for a moment. Considering the fact that Dean had lost his virginity at thirteen—with a teacher, no less—it seemed an insurmountable obstacle.

The demon leaned over and patted John's hand soothingly. "No worried. I know a spell. Instant virgin."

Dean squeaked before he could stop himself.

He began to stroll casually toward the back gate, hoping no one would notice before he could make a break for it. Fortunately, Meg had decided to discuss her wedding dress—black, naturally—and the demon and his father were distracted, with the demon assuring his little demonic pumpkin she would look perfect in anything.

Dean thought he would hurl.

The small walkway beyond the back gate curved and re-joined the main path. Dean continued in the direction in which he had been heading, not really caring where it led.

He was thoroughly bummed. As he walked, he kicked aimlessly at small stones in his path.

"Just perfect," he snarled. "_I_ stayed. Remember that, Dad?" The last was said over his shoulder.

He went back to kicking the stones ahead of him and muttering.

"I was your good soldier. _I've_ saved your butt on hunts. I didn't fight with you over every freaking thing. But, who cares, right? Sammy gets a wedding—okay, he also gets a lifetime...or more...shackled to Ms. Weird Lips. Me? _I_ get to have my heart cut out so Sam's honeymoon goes well."

He turned around and shouted back the way he had come. "You know, Dad, there's no way the fucking extra cookie makes up for _this_!"

Whirling on his heel, he strode away. Sam could join a freaking monastery for all he gave a damn right now.

He had calmed down a bit after about another half-hour of walking. As he rounded another bend in the road, he saw a figure up ahead, seated on a fence alongside the path. He did not need to see the person's face to recognize his younger brother. With whom he was not feeling too pleased at the moment.

Apparently Sam heard his approach. He stood and turned around. Dean gurgled and resisted the temptation to slap his hand over his eyes.

Of all the horrific things he had ever seen, Dean was pretty sure that _none_ of them matched the sight before him now. His 6'5" brother was wearing a blue-and-white pinafore, which barely came to his knees. This was accessorized with black patent leather Sunday school shoes and white tea socks, and a large yellow bow in Sam's shaggy locks.

Sam was beaming at him.

There were really only two possible responses to this insult to the senses—not to mention, the family escutcheon. One was to pull out his handgun and just put an end to his currently miserable existence, thereby also ensuring he would never have to remember this vision ever again.

The other option...

Dean slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He opened it, matching Sam's smile with a patently insincere one of his own, and put it camera mode. Framing his wannabe-sister, he snapped the picture.

Because one should never pass up an opportunity for some brotherly blackmail.

"Dean," Sam said cheerfully, "I've been waiting for you," He waved a hand at his outfit. "Like it?"

"It's an...interesting look," Dean said wearily. "Just...who are you suppsed to be?"

Sam frowned in puzzlement. "I'm Alice."

Dean sighed and resisted the temptation to hit his head repeatedly against the fence. "Of _course_ you are."

Sam's smile brightened. "Did you see Dad back there? I finally found him," he added unnecessarily.

"Yeah. I heard he wants you to marry the demon spawn. You know, Meg. The one who got us all slashed up back in Chicago."

Sam fluffed his hair and Dean winced. "He told me. I spent the day with Meg and I think we might suit after all. Dean, you just have to give her a chance."

"Yeah? Is that before or after they sacrifice me?" Dean mumbled under his breath.

San continued to prattle on. "Meg and I were discussing the arrangement."

"Arrangements? Like which one of you is wearing the wedding dress?" Dean was rapidly losing patience with his deluded sibling.

"You don't sound happy for me," Sam said petulantly.

"Well, it's that whole cut my heart out, get tossed into the volcano thing. It's getting in the way of my appreciation of your upcoming nuptials." The sarcasm practically burnt a hole in the hard-packed dirt of the path.

"Ha!" Sam said. "Seems as if I'm not the only 'selfish' member of this family." Then he brightened. "Well, once everything is finalized, it won't really matter how you feel about it. We'd better be going now."

"Great," Dean mumbled. "Whatever happened to, 'I would die for you', huh? Was there an expiration date on that statement?"

He looked up and immediately closed his eyes. Sam was _skipping_ down the road, humming to himself, the bow flopping with every step.

Dean _never_ wanted to see anything like that again.

With a sigh, he followed his brother, who was probably dreaming of stepping over his older brother's still-bleeding corpse and heading off on his honeymoon at Club Hell. A little while later, they found themselves facing a flat expanse of carefully manicured lawn.

It seemed to Dean that there were a bunch of people dressed as freaking _playing cards_ engaging in a game of something _he_ sure as hell had never played. And damned if they weren't using flamingos as some kind of mallet.

Reluctantly, he followed Sam onto the smooth grass. Almost immediately, one of the figures broke away from the game and stormed toward him. As she got closer, he could see it was definitely the Woman in White Sam had taken down, and she was wearing an Ace of Spades. Without a moment's hesitation, she began to flail away at him with the flamingo, muttering imprecations.

"Hey!" Dean yelped, using one arm to fend off the attack. "Why are you hitting me? It was Sam who nailed you!"

"I don't hit men wearing dresses. They have enough problems!"

Dean began to backpedal, until he was suddenly whacked with a flamingo on the back of his head. Whirling, he found himself nose to flamingo with Bloody Mary, tears of deep red still streaming down her cheeks.

"You killed me!" she screamed at him, whaling him with the bird. "And totally ruined my mascara!"

Dean threw a glance over his shoulder. "Uh, Sam, a little help here?"

His brother shrugged. "What's the point? We're only going to sacrifice you anyway." His brow suddenly furrowed in thought. "You know, being beaten to death by flamingos might even be just as good having your heart cut out."

Dean glared at him. "When I get out of this asylum, I am _so_ short-sheeting your bed!"

Sam seemed annoyed. "Is that some veiled reference to Ellicott? Because, Mr. I-Don't-D0-Chick-Flick-Moments, I tried to talk to you about that teeny, tiny misunderstanding but _you_ refused!"

"Teeny, tiny misunderstanding?" Dean looked stunned. "You _shot_ me five times!"

"Because you told me to. So it's all _your_ fault!"

"It's official," Dean growled. "I want to be an only child."

Bloody Mary whacked him yet again. Beyond pissed, Dean grabbed the flamingo and pulled it out of her hands.

It promptly bit him.

He gave it a patented steely-eyed Dean "you are so dead" glare.

It promptly fainted.

Leaving him holding a limp bird by its feet. "Great," he remarked conversationally to no one in particular, "now I'll probably have PETA after me, too."

"You killed that bird, you wicked man. I _knew_ it was a mistake for Roy to heal you."

Dean dropped his head and briefly closed his eyes, then he looked up. Sue Ann LeGrange stood there, flamingo-armed and dangerous.

"And I suppose," Dean asked a lot more calmly than he felt, "you aren't going to hit Sam, either"—he ignored Sam's, "Well, isn't that nice of you to say, big brother?"—"even though he's the one who trashed your alter and smashed your necklace?"

"He's a nice boy, not evil like you," she replied primly.

"He's cross-dressing! Isn't that a sin or something where you come from, for Christ's sake?"

"Blasphemer! Besides, he looks good in anything." She swung her bird viciously at his head. Dean ducked, then managed to hook one leg around her feet. He jerked his leg back quickly and Sue Ann flipped over backwards.

He ignored her threats of divine retribution and gave the nearby bushes a quick once-over.

"What are you looking for?" Sam asked.

"Ruby slippers," Dean snapped back. "A flying carpet. A magic lamp. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. _Anything_ to get out of here!"

"Those are all the wrong stories, you know," his little brother pointed out snottily.

"Oh, yeah. Let's worry about that, since everything _else_ has made so much freaking sense!"

Abruptly, his ears caught a familiar growl. It was growing louder and he straightened up, looking around frantically. A bright light was suddenly there, expanding rapidly. Then, with a roar, the Impala came flying out of the light. She hit the ground with a loud thunk and made a graceful 180°. As she reached Dean, her driver's door swung open.

John Winchester didn't raise any stupid Deans. Okay, if truth be told, John Winchester didn't actually raise _anybody_, but who was counting? He raced for the open door and jumped inside.

"Way to go, sweetheart," he crowed. "Let's get the hell out of Dodge!"

The Impala gunned its engine and flew back into the light. When they emerged on the other side, they were heading straight for a brick wall. Dean did not even have time to brace himself before they hit it. Hard.

His last thought before he slipped into unconsciousness was that, while he didn't want to hurt the Impala's feelings or anything or seem ungrateful, as rescue's go, this one sucked.

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His mouth felt full of cotton, a drum solo was reaching a crescendo in his head, and were little bears dancing in front of his eyes. He tried to raise his right hand to swat them away, but his arm just twitched a bit and then adamantly refused to budge any further.

"Dean?" came a relieved-sounding voice form somewhere out of his line of sight. "You're awake."

_Captain Obvious strikes again._

What he _intended_ to say was, "No, I'm fast asleep, Sam. I'm just _pretending_ to be awake."

What he actually said sounded to his ears a lot more like "mmpf" repeated several times.

The light suddenly dimmed as Sam passed in front of the lamp and stood where Dean could see him without turning his head. Which was a good thing, as there was no way that Dean was even going to _try_ to turn his head. The drums were now being accompanied by crashing cymbals and he even thought he caught some cannon fire going on in the background.

"Thank God," Sam said. "How do you feel?"

Dean answered very slowly, working to get his recalcitrant tongue to actually say something other than "mmpf". "Where--?"

"The motel. The witch hit you with a blast of something just before I nailed her with the rowan branch and you went down. You've been out for twelve hours."

He knew he should be concerned about the twelve-hour thing, but something else was bothering him even more. "Sammy, why are there dancing bears in our room?"

Sam looked puzzled then his expression cleared. Dean thought he caught a hint of a smile on the younger man's face.

"Dean, there are teddy bears on the wallpaper, remember? Your first words when we got here were—and I quote—'I think I want to hurl'. They're not dancing, though. You're just not over whatever she caught you with."

Dean would have argued about that last part, except he was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open. Sam straightened out Dean's blanket and turned off the lamp by the bed, leaving only the one in the far corner providing some dim illumination. Dean appreciated the cool darkness.

He still had one thing he had to bring to Sam's attention, though, before drifting off to sleep. He snaked one hand out of the covers and caught his brother's arm.

Enunciating carefully, he said, "I'm glad you stopped wearing the dress. And that damn bow. They weren't you. And I'm _not_ jumping into any volcanoes just so you can marry that bitch, Meg."

Sam's eyes widened and he looked stunned. His mouth worked, then he cleared his throat. "Uh, don't worry, Dean; the...wedding's off. And thanks for the fashion tip; I'll keep that in mind the next time I shop for clothes."

Dean nodded. "Good." Then he gave a huge yawn. "Later, dude."

His brother rested one hand on his shoulder then he moved away and disappeared from Dean's vision. Dean thought he heard Sam say something about "really have to get details about that dream." Almost immediately after, Dean heard the sound of a laptop's keyboard. He found it soothing and he let his eyes close.

Sam was wrong about the bears, though. They damn well _were_ dancing. And they all looked liked that stupid fabric softener bear. Just another reason to hunt down its ass.

Dean fell asleep, smiling broadly at the thought.


End file.
